


Of Gods and Monsters

by VRMiller



Series: Dragon Queen [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Community: skyrimkinkmeme, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VRMiller/pseuds/VRMiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dragon crisis has ended, but Asta knows the only way to achieve true peace in Skyrim is to ensure an end to the Civil War. F!DBxUlfric; prequel to Domestic. Written for the SKM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lydia was upstairs, leaving Asta in the living room, alone to her thoughts as she sat in front of the fire. Eyes drifting, they eventually landed on her bookshelf. Wrapped up in her own mind, the Nord wasn't certain exactly the train of thoughts that led her to remembering a certain dossier laid in her possession.

Her infiltration of the Embassy and subsequent interactions with the Thalmor had told Asta all she needed to know. They did love their paperwork, and the Nord lady had a love for sticking her nose where it didn't belong. This civil war was an absolute waste of time. She needed to get the Thalmor out. That much was obvious. Yet while the Empire and the Stormcloaks were wasting time butting heads like rams in rut, they seemed completely oblivious to the sabre cat hiding in the bushes.

Her life never had been able to be cut and dry. Everything was shades of grey when black and white would be so much easier. While Tullius wasn't... hopeless... well, she wasn't impressed. As the leader of the Imperial army (at least in Skyrim), the fact that he seemed completely uninterested in learning about the country's people and customs was disheartening. He didn't care. Getting the rebellion under control was just another set of orders.

But Ulfric was not the clear winner either.

Debating whether she wanted to move from the warmth of the fire to her alchemy room, Asta picked at the chicken breast sitting on a plate in her lap. Seeming more interested in obliterating it than she did actually eating, a few chunks accidentally landed on the floor, only to be gobbled up by the mongrel stray she'd found some time ago.

He probably should have been given a name by now. Perhaps she was simply putting too much thought into it, but nothing really seemed to fit him. He was simply Mongrel to her, though it was an affectionate term.

The Thalmor needed to be kicked out, and Asta needed to decide what she was going to do about it. Skyrim's peace was delicate and fragile; Alduin had been defeated, but Asta had yet to give any inclination she would tolerate a continuation of the fighting. Apparently her message had been well received.

Life was simpler when the choice was obvious. This was not as simple as deciding what was for dinner. No one seemed aware of this, but Asta had her own agenda to take into consideration. Trapped in a game of politics she couldn't quite play, this was likely her only chance to ensure her personal goals were met.

But ejection of an entire faction that consisted solely of one race was no easy task; especially when Asta had no desire for the Altmer minding their own business to be caught in the crossfire.

The Imperials would be a pain in the ass to get into gear. They seemed to think that blindly kneeling to the Thalmor would lessen the pressure, when the elves were just backing them into a corner.

Ulfric would be more than willing to help her; but at what cost? Asta was not so chained by her hatred of the Thalmor that she couldn't see past the obvious- All Thalmor were Altmer, but not all Altmer were Thalmor.

She was half tempted to wage a one woman war and say to hell with all of them.

Well... One woman and many, many dragons.

Not even bothering to preface with 'accidentally' dropping the food on the floor, Asta stripped the meat off the bone and tossed the pieces to Mongrel, who snapped them up happily. They'd just gotten him to stop begging, but the Nord didn't feel like eating and the stray needed all the extra calories he could get into his mouth. No longer the walking, fuzzy skeleton she'd found on the road outside Riverwood, he was still too ribby for her taste.

Standing, she left her plate in the chair; Lydia would come for it later, or in the morning.

Eventually.

It didn't matter to the Nord.

Despite the fact she enjoyed placing her books on display (the top of the bookcase had become an extra shelf, with the help of some Soul Gems-turned-paper-weights.), there were some things that didn't need to be seen.

Anything she wanted hidden away was kept in her Alchemy room. Now, yes, she could just tell Lydia to stay out of a certain drawer, or out of a room, but the Housecarl naturally found herself wanting nothing to do with the Alchemy room. Keeping her private things here ensured there was no chance of either Lydia's curiosity getting the better of her, or accidentally stumbling across them while looking for something else.

Mongrel watched with a curious expression on his face, ears perked as he lazily rose to his feet and padded over to her (likely hoping she'd drop more food for him), curling up near her chair in front of her lab.

Briefly debating with herself, the woman chose to shut the doors before turning back to her little sanctuary. Eyes didn't trail to the larger bookshelf- no, this time they were focused more on her chest.

To understand the cause, she had to understand the man behind it. The Stormcloaks were nothing without their leader; if his head had met the executioner's axe, surely the rebellion would have quelled in weeks without his passionate speeches.

Or maybe another bird would arise from his predecessor's ashes.

Stepping towards the chest, Asta lifted the lid and reach her hand in, rifling through spare potions and scrolls until her hands brushed across smooth leather. Withdrawing, she flipped the cover open.

Ulfric Stormcloak

She had the dossiers.

Delphine. Esbern. Ulfric.

The Blades would likely lose their minds if they knew she had these books. Not that she cared much for them any more. If forced with a choice, Asta was always tempted to go with the opposing side solely because they hadn't tried to force her hand. Asta had already decided on the matter. The dragons who accepted that Alduin's views were unacceptable, and chose to either follow her, like Odahviing, or retreat to quiet seclusion like Paarthurnax would be left to their own devices.

Those who went around burning villages would find themselves on the wrong end of her wrath.

Naturally, she hadn't responded well to Delphine essentially telling her 'kill Paarthurnax or I'm not talking to you ever again'. The look on her face when Asta had walked out of the temple!

She was not some fresh young girl who was an empty sponge, absorbing whatever information she came across. At thirty five, Asta was well old enough to be expected to make her own decisions.

Decisions, decisions...

Red, or blue?

Sitting down, Asta flopped the book open. She knew Delphine and Esbern's opinions on them knowing she had their dossiers. What of the Jarl?

Of course, she came to the conclusion, flipping through the pages while Mongrel acted as a foot warmer, that she couldn't know everything she needed to about Ulfric through the book.

No, the pages would not do; just as she had with the Imperials, she needed to meet the man.

An hour or two passed in the Alchemy room, Asta wrapped up in her own thoughts and flipping through the pages.

All that achieved was the pressing need to get the Thalmor out; they seemed to love keeping explicit, meticulous records of everything- including the ways they'd tortured the Jarl; what day, what they did, the result.

What little bit of chicken she'd actually managed to stomach was threatening to kick back up.

A logical question would be 'How does the Dragonborn get into Windhelm while being right under the Jarl's nose?'; She wanted to know what he really thought; not what he wanted to sell to her.

Thankfully, Asta had made the answer ridiculously easy for herself. Anytime she was on 'official Dragonborn business' as it was called, Asta always donned a cowl. Nothing special, but it covered everything except her eyes.

She could hide in plain sight; Surely Ulfric wouldn't remember their brief encounter in Helgen, and he certainly wouldn't guess she was the Dragonborn. The scar that traced her cheekbone and twisted down parallel to her mouth was invisible when she wore the cowl. There was nothing remarkable about her eyes- no flecks of green or gold, or interesting shade of the color; as far as he would be concerned, she'd simply be another blond haired, blue eyed Nord. Dime a dozen.

It was almost child's play.

So, it was settled then. She was going to Windhelm.

Standing, Asta turned back towards her chest of potions and scrolls and ingredients before hesitating slightly. Fingers danced delicately across the simple latch on the chest, before retreating as she decided she would take the dossier with her.

Opening the doors, the Dragonborn made a beeline for the stairs, heading straight to her own room. Lydia's door was open, and it was dark with the exception of a glow coming from the side of the door frame her bed was on; probably lit a candle so she could read, or clean a weapon. It wasn't quite time for sleep, but the entire town was winding down for the night.

"Lydia, I'm leaving in the morning."

"Do you wish me to accompany you, my Thane?"

"No; I'll just be making a trip to Windhelm. Nothing too important."

Lies. But Lydia liked to fret, so Asta tended to drop a little... well, a lie here and there so she'd feel better. Though she was very aware that the Housecarl did not approve of her Thane running around without her (and therefor rendering her virtually useless), she couldn't bring Lydia with her.

It wasn't as if Housecarls (who had a strong possessive streak of the person they're suppose to be protecting) were common; they were reserved solely for Thanes and Jarls, and while he would know she was no Jarl, it wouldn't take too much guessing. Everyone knew that despite all her wandering, the Dragonborn always came home to Whiterun, that she was Thane of the town which insisted on holding the war in a deadlock. No one (dragons included) ever caused problems with Whiterun, knowing that Asta would come kicking down their door.

All she wanted was peace, and while not her first choice, she was not averse to using short term violence to achieve the long term goal of prosperity.

Have the Dragonborn, have the town. Have the town, have the war.

She wouldn't be someone's pawn in this little game.

Mongrel scampered up the stairs (he was still having some difficulty completely comprehending how to go up and down them) after her, following his mistress into her bedroom. Knowing he'd sit and paw at the door if she shut him out, she waited for him to clear the doors before shutting them.

Might as well sleep early; there was nothing else to do, and she planned to leave at dawn; Windhelm was a long ride.

Having not left the town all day, Asta was dressed in a simple green gown. Reaching behind her, the stays in her bodice were quickly loosened, the dress falling to the floor.

Lifting and folding the thing, she put it away before slipping into her nightshift- a light, breezy thing as summers in Whiterun weren't as freezing as in other places; and even if it did get nippy, she had bedfurs and a large, furry space heater.

Deciding to pack now, rather than later, Asta wandered about her room and stuffed things into her bag. The dossier at the bottom, clothes, light armor, potions, a few pieces of jewelry, and daggers. Casting a longing look at her Drainblood Battleaxe, Asta sighed wistfully. No- that would be an enormous give away. She had a lovely selection of enchanted daggers she could handle just as well. Her bow and quiver were downstairs- so long as she didn't walk out the door half-asleep, she'd grab them before leaving, in addition to packing food.

Setting her pack down in the chair near the door, Asta blew out the candles before crawling into bed.

It was still dark when Asta awoke. Good; she hadn't overslept. Windhelm was a hard two day ride, and even though the bitter cold (at night, no less) would be a pain to deal with, she wasn't one to piddle around just because the weather wasn't sunshine and rainbows.

Never one to dwadle in that 'half-asleep' stage, once Asta's eyes were open, she was up. There was no rolling over and going back to bed.

Casting Candlelight in the far corner of the room, she slipped from under the covers. While she'd been hoping to be able to slip out without Mongrel waking, it seemed that the task had been futile. The moment she'd shifted he'd began to stir, giving her those accusatory eyes. He didn't leave the bed, but shifted to watch her while she tossed the night shift in favor of some flexible leather armor. Heavy armor never had been her forte, and she needed something that would also be comfortable for riding- both for her and her horse.

Grabbing her pack (which while she was packing light by her standards, was still fairly heavy), Asta slung the thing over her shoulders before walking out the door. Canlelight dispersed as she left the room, and then she heard a light thud, followed by the sound of scrambling claws against wood. Poor Mongrel; she always felt bad about leaving him, but Lydia liked the dog as much as she did. The Nord had her own assumptions about his past- Mongrel clung to her like a toddler to his mother's skirts, and while he wasn't aggressive towards people, every now and then he'd flinch if Asta or Lydia made too sudden a move.

Reaching a hand down to pat him on the head, Asta wasn't surprised to see he'd shrunk back a bit before raising his head to get some ear scratches.

Giving him a 'all done' pat, she continued on down the stairs, nearly tripping and falling to her death when Mongrel decided he wanted to try and beat her down them.

Picking up her bow from her weapons rack, Asta secured both it and its quiver on her back.

Now for food... She wouldn't need to bring too much- it was just a two day trip and she could buy a meal or two someplace along the way. Never one of the people to push her horse to his limits, Asta normally walked or trotted the majority of the way for long distances, and gave him a break while she ate a meal in some town.

The hearth was still lit up, casting warm shadows on the lower level of the house, so Asta rooted about in drawers for some non-perishables. Tossing what she found in her bag (plus an extra apple or three for her horse), the woman gave an extra go-over through her pack, making sure she had everything. Daggers on her hip, and Asta was ready to walk out the door.

And then Mongrel gave her that soft little pathetic whine that always tugged her heart strings. Damn that dog. Only had him for a month, and he knew how to play her like a fiddle. Of course he wanted to come along; she wanted to take him with her (he'd make cold nights much more bearable) as well, but it was impractical to bring him with her on this trip. Crouching, she gave him a good, thorough scratching right behind his left ear (which had both his tail and a back leg thumping against the wood wildly).

"You can't come with me this time. Sorry, buddy. Take care of Lydia while I'm gone."

Standing up, Asta ignored the pleading gaze while she exited the house. She could hear that pathetic little whine again, begging her to open the door and let him come with her. They'd already played this game before. He might whine for a while, maybe bark a few times, but he'd get the message and then go back upstairs and pester Lydia until he let her in.

The guards let her out without complaint, despite the early hour. Dawn wasn't for another hour or so, but Asta always liked to get a head start. The sooner this war was under wraps, the sooner she could get on with her life.

Walking towards the stables, Asta was left to her own devices, so naturally her mind started to wander. Before the Dragonborn crisis, she'd been a simple woman with a simple life. A hunter for the Jarl, she'd followed the herds and and dragged the meat back for the vendors and businesses so they'd have something fresh.

Imperials had taken her horse from her. That really hadn't sat well with Asta. The eight year old gelding had been Asta's thirtieth birthday present to herself, five years ago. After finding sanctuary with the Jarl, Asta had happened across her horse when she'd found a camp of dead Imperials. And he'd been dressed in Imperial horse armor. He'd been hers to begin with, and his 'current' owner had either died or ran off somewhere else. Not her problem. She had his sales papers.

Much as she loved him, her horse was a hunt horse, not a war horse. He was fine with arrows whistling by his ears towards a deer, but he didn't have the moxie for swords slashing near his flanks.

Speak of the devil; as she continued down her moonlit path towards the stables, she could see her gelding munching on some grass. They must have put all the horses out to pasture with the nice weather.

Once she got to one of the gates, Asta pulled out an apple; That got Rusher's attention immediately, the gelding trotting to close the distance before breaking down to a walk and finally stopping by her, immediately lipping at the apple. Having not had the foresight to cut it to slices previously, Asta had to wrangle half of the apple out of his mouth before he tried to swallow it whole and choke himself to death.

Opening the gate, Asta didn't bother with putting a halter on him. Instead, she laced her fingers in his mane, right on his pole and directly behind his ears. Despite the fact the massive monster of a horse could pop her shoulder right out of its' socket if he wanted, the horse followed her lead as gently as a puppy on a leash. Walking him towards the empty stalls, Asta parked him in front of a feed bin that had a pile of hay next to it- he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Gathering up everything she needed, Asta went through the usual routine when prepping Rusher for a long trip; nice, thorough brushing, clean his hooves, give them a good check to make sure they didn't need to be trimmed, brush him again, put the pad and saddle on, all while the black boy munched happily on his breakfast. Checking everything once more, Asta bridled him and walked back to the main road before mounting him, heading off towards Windhelm.

The trip was actually fairly uneventful. Asta stayed on the main roads rather than trail blazing as she normally did, which immediately cut down on the odds of running into predators. While there were always exceptions, they simply didn't hang around where there was a strong chance of people being present. What problems she did encounter were quickly handled with a stealthy arrow followed by a blast of fire.

She was competent enough with long range, but over the course of her travels, the woman had developed a deep seated love for close range- specifically her battleaxe. It was like Extreme Polo, swinging the thing from atop Rusher's back (though of course, the gelding did not approve in the slightest).

It was early evening when she finally arrived in Windhelm. The stablemaster , an Altmer, had been a nice fellow, taking her sweat slickened horse to get a well earned, thorough cleaning from the tips of his ears to the bottom of his hooves. Asta would have been lying if she said she wasn't surprised to see an Atlmer tending horses, happy as a clam. Ulfric was not known for his open minded, hospitable disposition towards the other races- especially the Altmer.


	2. The Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asta is not impressed with her first foray into Windhelm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been like 3 years since I've touched this fic, lmao. Also if there's any jarring differences in writing style, it's because chunks of this chapter are 4 years old, and other chunks I finished out today. Hopefully it's not too bad to read but (I hope) there's some differences in how I write now versus how I did back when I first started this thing.
> 
> Also, let me be a beacon of hope that perhaps one day you too will have a long gone author return from the grave and get back to work on the story. Next chapter is probably going to be from Ulfric's POV (or at least partially)

_ So be still when the darkness closes in  
_ _And tremble when the winds lay waste again_   
**\- Houses, _Tenderly_**   


 

The guards were a bit more whiny than the ones in Whiterun but let her in without too much fuss.

If she was being honest, Asta was... well, a little underwhelmed. The city looked to be in disrepair, for lack of a better term. But then, not every town could be Whiterun.

“You come here where yer not wanted. You eat our food, pollute our city with yer stink, and you _refuse_ to help the Stormcloaks!”

Eyebrows furrowing together, her attention was immediately locked onto two Nord men who seemed to be trying to corner a Dunmer woman.

“We haven't taken a side because it's not our fight.”

Asta turned her entire body towards the trio, watching _very_ carefully. None of them seemed to notice her in the slightest, but she was very aware of the Dunmer trying to inch away.

“Hey, maybe the reason these grey skins don't 'elp with the war is because they're Imperial spies!”

What on Nirn did she just walk into. Granted, she had been witness to stranger scenes than this, but this man was practically doing everything he could to justify lynching this woman- there was no way a rumor of an Imperial spy would be taken lightly in the capital of the Stormcloak rebellion.

“Imperial spies?! You can't be serious!” Her voice was as incredulous as Asta felt.

“Maybe we'll pay you a _visit_ tonight, little spy; we got ways o' findin' out what you really are.”

That was enough. She'd be damned to Oblivion before she allowed this go on.

“Is there a problem here?” As she spoke, Asta subconsciously drew herself up, head held high, shoulders back and holding eye contact, _daring_ him to run his mouth.

Then again, as far as he knew, she was just another woman- There was no way for him to know the Dragonborn was challenging him.

“You a dark elf lover? Get out of our city you filthy piece of trash.”

This man was either incredibly stupid, or incredibly brave. If there was any chance of him being able to put up a fight, it might be refreshing to be challenged by someone she could consider her equal. A reality check, it could be called.

The dragon blood in her roared that he was weak; do like the dragons. Set an example with the first, and the rest will fall in line.

All in all, she really wasn't impressed with this first glimpse of the city.

“And _why,_ may I ask, do you hate the dark elves?”

“They're parasites. They're livin' in our city, under our protection, but what do they do for us? Nothing! I know the High King invited 'em here, but he didn't ask me or anyone else first. Maybe he should have.”

This peaked Asta's interest; and not necessarily in the good way. Why would the Jarl extend an offer of protection to the Dunmer, yet do nothing when his own people were harassing them? The woman hadn't seemed surprised in the slightest when the two Nords cornered her, though had obviously been trying to shift away from them. Or, maybe he did do something about the racists. _This_ did not sit well with Asta and she _would_ get to the bottom of it.

“Do you _really_ think they're Imperial spies?”

“Wouldn' surprise me. 'ey've done nothin' to help in the fight fer Skyrim's freedom. Those Thalmor 're elves too. I bet they're workin' together. Maybe I shoul' round up some men and take us some prisoners to interrogate.”

Seriously? The _lengths_ some people would go to just to justify their hatred for another race... Well, she really ought to nip this one right in the butt. Otherwise Windhelm was going to wake up to the body of a dark elf one day- if they hadn't already.

“I don't like your attitude.” Voice was still calm and level, but shorter and more clipped.

He scoffed at her; again, the dragon blood roared in her ears, demanding she put the insolent bastard firmly in place. His friend had wandered off, but the Dunmer woman was watching from a safe distance.

“Don't like it? Too bad! This city is ours! Don't think I can take you?”

Oh, she knew he couldn't take her. If he wanted to challenge her to a brawl, then that was fine with her- knock some sense into this one and maybe the rest would think twice.

“One hundred septims says I can punch you back where you came from.”

“Alright, you're on.” She tried her best to sound bored; maybe he'd back down.

“All right. Fists only.” Well, there went that idea. “And none of that magic stuff, either! Let's go!” Oh well.

Asta sighed, but put her fists up. While she might not have been able to match the strength of his punches blow-for-blow, she was smaller, faster, more agile and most importantly- much more sober than he was. A few blows landed, most glancing off of her shoulders or catching on her forearms. They would bruise and she'd probably be a little sore the next day, but she'd had worse. The aches probably wouldn't be worth wasting a healing potion in the morning.

The guards did nothing aside from watch with some interest; while a small part of her nagged they should be attempting to break the brawl up, on the other hand she really wasn't in a position to complain. If this man had been sober, it would have gone in a completely different direction. Quite obviously the average Nord woman was at a physical disadvantage against the typical Nord man; Honestly, the idea of being beaten didn't scare her as much as it should have. The dovah in her was growing more dominant by the day and practically _begged_ for a challenge. Very few things got her blood racing anymore, and while she supposed there should be some gratitude in her abilities, she was aware this reinforced feeling of invincibility would one day get the better of her. Nothing reminded one of just how very _alive_ they were without death narrowly missing them- as Asta had learned the hard way with Helgen.

The little voice in the back of her head whispered to her that it would be so easy to just Fus-Ro-Dah him- The logical side of her brain immediately silenced the voice. That would be absolute insanity. Effective, but insane.

He was starting to wear down; the man had been half way to smashed anyway, and Asta dancing around him in circles to avoid be hit (the ones he did manage to land hurt like Oblivion) wasn't doing him any favors. A few more solid blows had him knocked completely off balance and sprawled on his back in the snow.

“ _Dat_ wasn't a fair swing.” the man coughed as he staggered to his feet.

“You lost.”

He huffed and tossed the coin pouch at her feet before toddling away silently. Sighing softly, Asta snatched the thing up. Part of her wanted to push on and head up to the Palace of the Kings- the logical part acknowledged that while her horse had only been walking and a slow trot for the most part, the woman had spent the majority of two days in the saddle. Pair that with the brawl, and she was just about ready to collapse.

Standing still for a few moments, Asta zoned as she was prone too, staring at nothing in particular. It wasn't until she finally noticed a hand being tentatively waved in her face. Eyes snapping to the owner of said hand, she realized it was the Dunmer woman.

“Are you alright?” There was an obvious questioning tone to her voice- not pondering Asta's physical condition, but her mental health.

“Oh, yes, I'm fine. Sorry... Do they do that often?"

"What, threaten us in the streets while guards look the other way? Yes."

A frown etched itself into her forehead as the Dunmer woman wandered away, leaving Asta alone in the snow.

The sun would be setting soon. It was late- too late to barge into the Palace of the Kings and attempt to see what was going on with the Stormcloaks. Looking around her, Asta found what she could only assume was the inn; it was nicely located right in front of the gate.

When Asta had started walking she must have zoned off again, entranced with the view and still chewing on the fact that the Dunmer could be so easily preyed upon.

This city was... well, so much more _desolate_ than she would have imagined the 'rebel' headquarters would be. But then, maybe it was a reminder of what once had been. Or maybe her exhausted brain was struggling to find meaning in a place where there wasn't any. After all, this area of Skyrim was not known for its hospitable weather. No doubt it weathered its buildings just as harshly as it did its people.

Speaking of hospitable, the Inn was looking decidedly more and more inviting the more she looked at it. If Windhelm was this cold in the evening, it must be horrendous at night. Opening the door to the hall, it was... well, quaint was not the word for it, as it was one of the larger inns she'd seen in Skyrim.

The woman at the inn was happy to sell Asta an empty room for the night. But then, coin was coin and it was doubtful that she'd care too much about who was doing the renting so long as they didn't trash the room.

Slowly trudging her way after the woman's directions, Asta unceremoniously dumped everything right beside the door way no sooner than she had entered. Kicking it shut, the door hit the frame with a soft slam. _Everything_ was starting to protest from the ride and subsequent fight. Specifically her back and knees- the glories of aging.

Stripping out of her clothes, Asta heavily contemplated if she had the physical capacity to change or just wanted to crawl under the covers and deal with the cold. Logic eventually won out, changing into sturdy leggings and a tunic- warm enough to keep her going through the night and more comfortable than sleeping in armor.

Asleep as soon as she was in the bed, Asta was confused when her eyes opened a moment later (or so it seemed). Rather than seeing early morning streams of light or (what she'd expected) to find she'd slept until mid day, it was still pitch dark out. Frowning, she sat up in the bed, casting a glance out the window. She'd gotten a few hours of sleep obviously, but had expected to be out for longer.

Oh well. There was no drifting back off for her.

The idea of sitting around on the bed was not one that appealed to Asta- hopefully if she wandered around the city, the exercise would remind her body that it should probably require more than a mere few hours to recuperate.

Dressing once more, she merely hoped she could pace out the energy from her. The blood was a fickle creature, keeping Asta up for days on minimal sleep before having her crash for long intervals.

It was better if she didn't fight it.

Arming herself lightly with her enchanted daggers, she slipped out of the inn quietly and into the streets. The city could have been beautiful- looking past the worn stone and cracks, the architecture would have once been stunning.

Her eyes, for the most part, were as always on the sky. Dragons still roamed the land and though their numbers had dwindled. She'd taken a harsh stance on the dragons, as strict as any gardener pruning a rose bush. Those who did not meet muster were eliminated. The dragons who disagreed with how Asta handled them, or Paarthunax kept quiet. The knowledge of how she'd killed Alduin was still fresh. None felt bold enough to outright challenge her or their new lord. Dragon sightings continued, the creatures staking out territories amongst word walls or burial grounds, but left the humans be. Had they not, she would have caught wind of the news on the breeze and dealt with the offenders quickly.

Hours passed quietly, Asta not seeing a single soul aside from the occasional guard who regarded her with a curious expression before continuing on about their rounds, no doubt due to the late hour. Finally the exhaustion started to creep into her bones slowly but surely.

The fatigue of the days' travel was setting in and Asta had almost made it to the door of the Inn when she heard it. Over the wind, faint as it was, she could hear the well defined sound of a shrill scream.

Her body protested violently, desperate for a chance to just curl up and not do anything, but Asta's slightly eschew moral grounding wouldn't allow her to ignore the sound.

All she wanted was to curl up under some covers, rest and recover- on the other hand, her being sleepy did not justify sitting by and simply allowing whatever was happening to come to pass.

Rushing towards the sound of the scream, Asta struggled to keep her balance between the snow and ice-slicked ground, and her own body threatening to give. Completely blind as to what she as about to walk into, Asta could feel her magic thrumming in her veins.

Turning a corner, just as Asta came to a flight of stairs, she found herself... in the graveyard? A body was spread out on a tomb stone, in nothing but her smalls and covered in wounds which had stopped bleeding. No stranger to death, she still felt a slight twist in her gut- it was one thing to find bandits dead (or actually doing the bandit killing herself), but it never did sit well with Asta when innocents were turned into victims.

A small gathering were huddled around the corpse, a guard among them. As she approached, the guard noticed the latest bystander to this crime;

"Hold it there! Keep your distance."

Eyes traveling from the large guard to the woman, she refocused her attention on him. "What happened here?"

"Another girl killed." His tone was softer this time, the regret obvious. Not oblivious to the _another_ in that sentence, Asta waited for him to finish speaking. "This is Susana, from Candlehearth Hall. Served me a drink just a few nights ago. I can't say I knew her."

Asta couldn't get past his wording. "Another? Has this happened before?"

"Susana's the third. It's always the same. Young girl, killed at night, body torn up."

Aedra, Daedra and minor saints.

"Are the murders being investigated?" She watched keenly for his answer.

Had he merely said yes, but their efforts hadn't been enough, Asta most likely would have been able to accept that. However what she had _not_ been expecting was the next words out of his mouth.

"We're stretched thin enough as it is with the war. No one has the time to spend on this. Unpleasant but it's the truth."

What the oblivion kind of answer was that?

No doubt her displeasure was written across her face but the Nord kept her mouth tight and expression neutral. "Could you use some help?"

The guard looked relieved, and Asta felt a slight...pang of something. Obviously the effort was more than welcome from his face. But what the _Oblivion_ was Ulfric doing if his troops were so thin he couldn't even keep his own city in check? Or be bothered to inquire about a serial killer? How many more women needed to die before they finally held his attention?

"Ask some of these gawkers if they saw anything useful. I'm going to examine the body before the rats can get to it."

Asta did as bid, inquiring with the three bystanders. The man, whose name she did not inquire and he did not offer, unsettled her. Something about the way he was looking at Susana didn't sit right with her.

But then maybe she was just being paranoid. Most folks weren't used to the sight of a dead body.

All in all, no one was any help. The priestess who was tending to Susana made the observation that it was not money the killer was after. So they weren't robberies gone wrong. While not a definitive answer, it did help her in a way by crossing out one sort of motive.

Huffing, aggravated that no one had seen anything concrete other than that the figure was male, she returned to the guard.

"I've spoken to them. They don't know anything that could help."

The guard's tone was frustrated much akin to Asta. "Just like always. Nobody saw anything useful. Bastard escaped again."

She paused, debating how she wanted to word her next response. "There might be more to this, if you'll let me help."

Apparently not the right thing to say, as the guard's frustration with the situation turned to aggravation at her. Tersely informing her that she needed to speak to Jorleif, she was effectively dismissed.

Jorleif, most likely, was sleeping. It would not do for Asta to earn the man's ire by rousing him. As much as it burned her blood (she never had been a "hurry up and wait" sort), she gave one last look to the crime scene and made her way back to Candlehearth.

The fatigue was gone and she was wired. It'd be another sleepless night.

First thing in the morning she'd make her way to the Palace of the Kings.

**Author's Note:**

> NagainaFier does not own Skyrim, nor make any profit off of this story. She only owns the work as a whole, but the world itself is the sole property of Bethesda.
> 
> Yet another prompt for the SKM.
> 
> Essentially, the prompter wanted a fill where the Dragonborn has finished the main questline, and is doing her research before choosing a side in the civil war. She really wants what is best for the country, and becomes infatuated with Ulfric and his passion for his rebellion. While I've technically got the power to choose whether she joins the Stormcloaks or Imperials, I think we all know which one I'm going with, since a) It's me writing this, and b) This is the prequel to Domestic.
> 
> This pairing started with me wanting to do something a little different; not having the DB be some spring chicken, fresh-as-a-rose 18 year old who's oblivious to the world around her and comes into herself through the quest lines. I opted for a lady who's lived her life, has some experience under her belt already, and not as bright eyed and bushy tailed.
> 
> I try to stay lore-friendly in general, but I will deviate from the set-in-stone steps of quest lines because variety is the spice of life. With this in mind, if you see me heading towards a major blunder in lore, please do feel free to let me know.


End file.
